Wednesday, December 9, 2009

So were all your tattoos done with a bic pen?

I feel like I should announce this blog as a "Location Blog" since I am not at home. I am currently tapped into Shev's internet, while I battle it out with Comcast for control over my own network. The struggle is long, but I am confident that the outcome will be triumphant.

I could write about how cold I am, about how much California traffic sucks. I could tell you how dramatic the past 36 hours have been, about how weird it is to "live" in a place that has NONE of my stuff, but I won't. Instead, I will tell you about my flight.

For those of you who follow my twitter, you know that while waiting in the Houston Hobby airport, I listened to an elderly couple argue over how to operate a Kindle. Yes, the old people were reading on electronic devices, and I had a paperback. I guess that makes me vintage, which makes me super scene, which is the goal of my life at all times.

But the more interesting story happened as I was boarding the plane. I am walking down the line to get on Southwest Flight #2848, direct service to Oakland, and I see a guy, mid-twenties, who kind of looks like my type, from behind at least. (Is that weird? Whatever. It happens.) As I'm passing him, he looks at me, and that's when I notice the generic death metal font splayed across his tshirt. Thumbs down. That's a shame. I board the flight.

This is the part where I have to tell you that I always, ALWAYS choose the window seat. I don't like to be bothered with people crawling over me, and I hate getting up on planes. Hence, I'm a window-seat girl. So I find the first empty row, clamor across the two exterior seats and settle in. Now I surreptitiously watch everyone pass by my row. And this is when the paranoia kicks in. Because I don't honestly want ANYONE to sit in my row. But at the same time, I would be offended if no one wanted to. Because everyone else is walking down that middle aisle thinking one of two things, in this order:

1. What seat do I want? Is it taken in the row?

2. Of the open seats of my choice, who could I tolerate sitting near?

So I watch the passer-bys and I think, either they're also window seat people, or I look like someone they have no interest in coexisting near. If it's the latter, then I'm annoyed. Because I showered, and I smell fantastic. I don't hog arm-rests, I don't talk, if I fall asleep, it's up against the wall, away from everyone, and I don't get up...ever. You should be FIGHTING to sit next to me. Everyone on this stupid plane should be hurdling over small children and tray tables to get to row fifteen. Besides, we are all gonna be breathing the same stupid air, so just sit in this dumb row and quit blocking the aisle.

But this was not one of the times that my internal debate had to carry on for long. Because death metal tshirt walks down the aisle, sees me, and asks if the aisle seat is taken. (This should have been my first clue. He saw that I was traveling alone. So who would I be saving that seat for? Creepy orange beard guy? No.) So I say no. Actually I said, "have at it," because I'm too weird to give simple, normal responses. For a moment, I'm flattered that he chose my row, but that moment passes, and soon - I will wish with my whole heart that I had lied.

Because Josh (oh yes, we exchanged names,) is a talker. Well, maybe not usually, but he's talking to me. And we're still on the tarmac, so my portable electronic device is still in the "off" position. Josh asks me, "how long has it been been since you've been back?"

I am confused.

I ask him to repeat the question. He clarifys. I understand his intention is to find out the purpose of my existence in seat 15A. I tell him that the last time I was in Oakland was a year ago, and that I'm moving back. (this is the part where I take a moment to revel in my statement. Holy crap. I'm Eyes get wide, a look of fear and all consuming anxiety washes over my expression. Another question, moment passes, I can breathe again.)

So I ask Josh the reciprocating question. "What about you?" Because I am from Texas and I am polite. And I don't have anything else to do while the flight attendants secure the doors for departure. He tells me it's been six years. I feign interest. His expression shows me that he thinks this is a monumental period of time. I say "wow." This is the moment he proceeds to tell me that for the past three years (give or take) he has been in a West Texas jail.

Can I pause for a minute? Who tells someone that? Within the first ten minutes of conversation? Freaking weird.

The conversation went downhill from then on. He proceeded to tell me all the states he's had warrants in, he told me about how if he were going to go back to jail, he would want it to be the one in Marin county (on account of how that's his favorite one) and how he likes books about serial killers and death metal music. Really, really great.

As soon as we reached 10,000 feet, I put on my headphones. And I didn't take them off until the stupid flight attendant came around and motioned at me. And as the plane is in it's final descent into Oakland - Josh says this:

"Man, I wonder if I still have warrants in California?"

Why me? Why do I have to sit next to the crazy, freshly paroled nutbag? So I tell him that he should really check into that. And he laughs. But I'm not kidding. Needless to say, as soon as I could, I ran off the plane, and made a sharp left into the girl's bathroom to hide out for a bit, because I would rather have to talk to the baggage claim employee who would undoubtedly berate me for allowing my luggage to go around the carousel too many times than interact with Josh the jail-lover. I pick my battles.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Official notice:

I should have made note of this sooner, rather than allow the thought of abandonment to wash over. I am currently nine days out from my 2,000 mile journey west. On December 8th, I will be making the relocation effort to Oakland, California.

So in the next week or so, I have to pack up all my things, find a place to live, start two new jobs, and then of course, the actual act of moving. I would like to say that I'll update with photos and news from the move, but in all reality, I will be doing a good job if I check my email every day.

In summation, rotation-revolution will be on a bit of a hiatus. (As if it already hasn't been.)

Best wishes, happy december, seasons greetings and any other kind of festive wishes I might miss telling you.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

this is a blog.

My life has been so topsy turvy (cue track from Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame) that I really don't have enough focus to formulate linear thoughts. I do, however, have some things to share, so I guess I will get right down to it.

Firstly, I want to bring attention to anyone who could possibly stumble across this blog, to the documentary released last week called "Dear Jack." The hour long feature focuses on singer/songwriter Andrew McMahon as he struggles with his battle against leukemia. The doc itself is wonderful, and McMahon, who has always been one of my favorite musicians, is all together the most inspiring human being ever to walk this planet. So while I fully recommend the film, what I want to absolutely bring attention to is the Dear Jack EP available on iTunes. 4 tracks, including a remix of "Swim" which was originally on Jack's Mannequin's sophomore album "The Glass Passenger."

On a more important note, I would like to tell you about my new shoes. I've gotten a handful of eye rolls and a couple "so, do you own all of the converse now?" but those are easy to ignore. Because look how lovely they are! Everyone has their obsessions, and I am completely comfortable admitting that I love converse. I believe with the addition of this pair (which are high-tops, by the way) the count is up to twelve. Twelve is a good number right? One per month. One pair every two hours of the day. See? Divisible. Good stuff.

I also took a trip this past weekend to Crowley, Louisiana. (95% of you will not know where that is. 50% of those people will type in Crowley, Louisiana to google maps. and 17% of those people will still not know where that is. It's okay, don't feel any less geographically savvy. It's freaking small.) It was my Aunt's 50th birthday, and so all of my mother's side of the family gathered for celebratory activities. Weekends with my extended family are really fantastic, but it never fails that I come back more exhausted than I was before I left. I think part of that is because my two youngest cousins, Josh and Abby, have taken to following me around with magnetic precision. And I love it. I love it for the same reasons I love to blog. I love attention.

On Saturday, while there was much grown up chatter and cooking being accomplished, I sat in the living room of my Uncle's house and played Yahtzee for the first time, ever. For those of you less savvy to the Milton Bradley catalog, Yahtzee is a dice game. And you roll the dice and try to get things like 3 or 4-of-a-kind and you keep score and it's good fun for all. Well, it's good fun for kids, and for me if I'm winning. However, I spent the first half of the game losing, and not having fun. I mean, my scores were pathetic, and I was snapping at a 10-year-old, who was just laughing her head off at my bitterness. Abby would say, "See Eleanor, look! You got two, twos. That means you get four points! ha ha ha!" and my response was, "Yes, that's hilarious. Just roll the stupid dice."

I'm a bad loser. That's why I never got the good sportsmanship award (you know the one that all the kids are supposed to get? Yeah, all minus me) in sports, why most people only play games with me once, and why from the ages of 7-present, my brothers and I are not allowed to play Risk or Monopoly. But something wonderful happened about halfway through our rousing game of dice rolling. I rolled a Yahtzee. (Out of 5 dice, I rolled five sixes.) And I stood up and shouted Yahtzee and started to make my way into the kitchen. But apparently rolling a Yahtzee does not end the game, like I think it should. You know? Like in Jenga, the game is over when you yell Jenga! Anyway, I know that I'm 22 and it's sad to brag about defeating children, but I totally did. I dominated. And my cousin Josh told me it was "beginner's luck" and I told him that those are the kinds of things that losers say.

I might be the worst role model ever.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

eleven / five / oh-nine

Thoughts / Musings that I couldn't flesh out into an entire entry:

+ "White Trash Parties" are only acceptable and funny if you are not actually white trash. If your "costume" was assembled out of things in your closet that cannot be classified as "costume clothes," then maybe you should consider a different type of party theme. Suggested alternative themes: "High-School Graduate Party," "Normal, functioning members of Society Night," or the classic "Alcoholic beverages not consumed out of a Keg and/or Trashcan Party."

+The other night, I went and saw "Where the Wild Things Are" at the local movie theater. When I was walking out of the movie theater, I passed the arcade, where I saw a middle-aged man playing Guitar Hero by himself. He was really into it. This would be acceptable, sure, if he wasn't my Dad's age playing a video game in a suit. At 10:30 pm. On a Tuesday. Thumbs down.

+ I had to go to the dentist the other day (man, do I hate the dentist.) and the assistant dentist (?) told me that I might have to get a cavity filled. Actually, what the blue-scrubbed glorified teeth cleaner said was "he might not even worry about it, it's not through the enamel yet." Then the Dentist (dentists wear green scrubs. So in the oral-hygiene hierarchy: green trumps blue) said I had four cavities. And that he was being conservative. (Well duh, this is Texas, no need to brag, you're not special.) I said that I thought he was lying. He said that it wouldn't have happened if I would floss more. I said flossing was stupid. He said he looks forward to seeing me next week. I made a snarky remark about his establishment. Today, my tooth hurts. Karma = bitch.

It's sad when you can only list three things as your "thoughts" for the week. Oh well. I thought other things, they just weren't very funny. Job searching makes me want to pull my brain out through my ears with those wooden tong things that you use to get toast out of the toaster. Only my ear canals are too small, so it wouldn't even work. I cannot catch a break.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

word[less] wednesday

[quote] Frank Beddor "Looking Glass Wars"
[image] courtesy of Allison Krause

Saturday, October 31, 2009


I know that it goes against everything one could assume about me, but I'm about to say it. And you'll have to know that it's the truth, because this is my blog, the place where only the truth gets said.

Halloween is not my favorite holiday.

Now, it's among my top three, sure. But that's really only because I love any holiday that involves skull and crossbones, and playing dress up. (Sadly for me, I didn't have a reason to get a costume this year, so I will just have to go all out twice as much next year.) I have, however, had a very productive day, which is strange. I usually like to take advantage of the excuse of a holiday to avoid work-like things. (Oh you want that by when? Sorry, can't do it that day. It's Arbor Day.)

Nevertheless, I got up fairly early this morning, finished some voiceover edits and sent them off, went to the gym, successfully avoided all free candy at said gym, (Counterproductive much, 24 hour?) went to Barnes and Noble with my brother (highlight of my life: my older brother did not roll his eyes at either of my book purchases. That must mean I'm growing up.)

and then I decided to bake these.

If you're looking at the recipe and questioning the last picture, I had to improvise for my dad, who claims a cookie is "no good without chocolate." So I melted some milk chocolate chips and glazed the tops of the cookies with them. I haven't gotten to taste my creations yet, but I must say they made my house smell divine.

I will finish off my night with a viewing of one of my favorite films, "The Nightmare Before Christmas" and maybe an encore performance of "Hocus Pocus."

Happiest of Halloweens to all in the blogosphere.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

lego-land empires

I really have an urge to blog, probably because of the fantastic mood I've been in, because it's Autumn. Not "fall" because that's not a eloquent enough word.

Autumn is for leaves changing, crisp breezes through open windows, spicy smells, candles burning, jackets and scarves, darker hair colors, holiday buzz, exciting Pottery Barn catalogs. And none of those things can be translated in the word, "fall." So it's autumn on this blog.

Now, some of my closest friends, for obvious reasons, love Halloween. I'm really not much of a Halloween celebrator, BUT I do have a weakness for Pottery Barn's Halloween decor. Only for me, it's not so much seasonal, because the Halloween style is a year-round thing for me.

Like this:
Candle, and candle holder (or candle stand? Don't know, stand sounds weird,) are both from Pottery Barn's Halloween Decor section, and I love them. Also photographed, Good Luck Bear, who is not from Pottery Barn. He was a gift my first year of college from a co-worker. That is actually where he goes on my dresser, though even if he wasn't, I bet I would have tried to give him a cameo on the blog anyway. He's good people.

What else? I think I'm finally done traveling, at least until December, when I will finally be making my return to the Bay Area. Shevvs and I are already planning several great adventures, and we still have a month to make adjustments. We have some definites though, one of them being a movie night to see "New Moon," as we have decided is tradition since last year's "Twilight" night. (Am I outing myself as a total nerd? I guess only if you didn't pick up on that before. And that's your bad.)

I also found these beads on the kitchen table this morning,
and decided to wear them:
The other necklace is of the Steampunk persuasion, a 22nd birthday gift from a dear friend, but I am really digging these beads today. I mean, so far I've worn them to Target and the gas station, but if I go see Paranormal Activity tonight, I think I'll rock them again. I'd wear them to the gym, but that would be silly, even for me.

I guess I will leave you, my fellow internet dwellers, with my day one of my new fad of the "Daily Haiku." I love the simplicity of the structure and rules for writing these mini-poems, so I'm going to try to jot down one a day for the rest of October and all of November. Makes me want to get a Haiku journal just for this activity, but I have about 4 unused journals just waiting for some love, so I will have to just make do.

photo courtesy of: Allison Krause

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

New Orleans, 2009.

Just a brief photo-recap of my weekend trip to New Orleans, Louisiana. You know, for those of you who haven't, or don't care to, look through the 200 photos that got posted over the past few days on Facebook.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Thoughts/Occurrences that didn't justify an entire entry.

+ I was driving home the other day, and I came to a rolling stop (better described as an extremely cautious yield) at the corner stop sign. Then, I saw an SUV with police lights on top. This is the moment when I think, "Shit, was that enough of a stop for him? I looked! There wasn't anyone there! I looked!" (Yes, I was planning my defense already.) So as I continued on down the road, attempting to act as nonchalant as a 1500-pound car can look- (does anyone else do that? It's like ducking when you enter a parking garage with a fairly low height restriction, it doesn't help your car, but you do it anyway.) I glance in my rearview mirror (again, I do this very covertly, innocence being my goal) to see that it's an SUV for the fire department. I sigh in relief, and in my car, I have this conversation with myself.
"Oh, it's not a cop."
"Even so, that was a pretty good stop for that corner."
"It's like a cop for the fire department. What do you call those guys?"
"It's a fire cop."
This is the moment that I pause, reassess the words that just came out of my mouth (because yes, I was having this conversation out loud. in my car. alone.) and then I say this:
"Really, Eleanor? Fire cop? That's not a thing."

+I'm almost positive that in order to train to be a car salesmen, you have to work at a cart in the mall. I try to walk from Macy's to Urban Outfitters today, about a half-mall distance, and I get hustled by every single cart salesmen. No, I don't want to switch phone services. No, I don't want a remote-control helicopter. No, I don't need a new flat-iron and no, I do not need knockoff designer sunglasses. My only line of defense in these situations is to look busy or pissed off, and to avoid eye contact. For me, if I make the mistake of eye contact, it's over. Whatever they're selling, I'm buying. Because I can only say no so many times because I feel awful and the guilt overwhelms me. And then I'm presented with the choice of death by drowning in a sea of contrition, or buying the cheapest thing I can find on their cart-of-wonders and get the hell out of there. Nevertheless, buyers remorse always kicks in right around the time I look down at the receipt to see "All Sales Final" stamped in red ink. I feel suckered and victimized. And instantly poorer.

+ I, without fail, always have an oval shaped bruise about a third of the way past my kneecap on my left shin. It never gets a chance to fade - just change colors, like a mood ring. I have a mood bruise on my shin. Logic will deduce this occurrence to the placement of my subwoofer, which is under my desk, right around the area where one's feet would go. However, I was away from my desk for over a week, and somehow, the bruise managed to be reformed in the exact same spot from some other unknown object. Today, it is a greyish-purple which means I am "at rest, tranquil and aloof."

+The other day, I was at the bank, and an old man commented on how fast I was at texting. This, immediately, made me stumble over every word I tried to write, and also forget what I was writing in the first place. I wanted to yell at this guy, "hey JACKASS, stop watching me text!" because he was just staring at me. But the bank is a quiet place in general, and he and I were the only customers in there. Also, had I acted upon my initial thought to shout at this elderly stranger, I would have been that crazy lady at the bank, and I'm sure my deposit would have been denied.

+Today, I was at the gym, and thought of something really funny, and so as a natural response, I started smiling. Now, this would have been fine, if I hadn't also, accidentally been spaced out, and my eyes were unfocused on a guy who had noticed, and was giving me a very confused look. Because I was running on the treadmill, grinning like an idiot, and accidentally staring at a buff, no-nonsense type man. I tried to avert my eyes to the television, but it was too late. He was still looking at me like I was the weirdest person ever. And since I'm just the slightest bit neurotic, I actually considered walking over to him and explaining myself, like:
"Hi. I know you think that I was smiling at you, but really, I was just zoned out and I was thinking about this one time that my friend and I were walking and I made a joke about the wind and I said, 'you know, like a candle in the...' and I left it open, you know because, well you get it I'm sure. Anyway, she just kept talking about whether or not we should turn right at the next block, and totally just left me hanging! So I was thinking about how that was funny, and that's why I was smiling. Not because of you, in fact, I wasn't even looking at you. So now you know that. Okay, thank you for your time and enjoy the rest of your workout."

+Facebook rant: I hate it when you make a comment on someone's status, or on a photo, and then you get about 20 notifications when other people, mostly people you don't know, comment on the same thing. Do I care what these people have to say? No. I just wanted to make my quippy remark, and then that's all. I don't care what other people have to say, unless it pertains to me, which it rarely does. It's annoying to get excited when I see that little red thought-bubble at the bottom of my screen, only to find out that it really doesn't concern me at all. Hey Facebook, Eleanor Thibeaux dislikes this.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

productive vacationing

My trip to New York was trifold:

1. Visit my two best friends.
2. Attend AES (Audio Engineering Society) convention.
3. Mark off a few of my goals for my 22nd year of being alive.

Firstly, I will be marking off #4, "Take a long weekend in NYC" even though I was actually there for 10 days, so it was a really, really, really long weekend.
When I do finally get around to posting photos of the trip as a whole, I could very easily title that blog, "How I ate my way through New York City." An example? Two Boots to go West: New York meets Louisiana-style pizza. Pretty delicious, especially being so far away from home. Also in need of very little introduction - the two beautiful ladies accompanying me in the pictures, my girls: Alice and Allison.

Up next is #7, "Visit a History Museum." And what better museum of history is there than the American Museum of Natural History in the heart of Manhattan? I'll be planning a trip back there in the future, there was just so much that we had to skip around a bit.
I have always had a secret love of history. (Yes, I was that kid in school, usually the only one, who didn't complain about having to take history classes. I rather enjoyed them. I took AP history for advanced knowledge, not for advanced credit.) This does not begin to cover the amount of photos I have from the trip, and I will post some of my favorites in another blog. I recommend checking out the full res of this picture, to see the quote on the 2nd page.

And lastly, #15 "See a new Play" which could have been alternatively named "See three new plays." I picked the one I loved the most, though it was a tough choice. Runners up were Shrek: The Musical and Alter Boyz. But as you see, we had a winner, and it was Rock of Ages.
A musical, based solely on 80's rock music. Anyone that knows me a little bit knows how deep my love is for classic 80's hair metal and power ballads. Epically entertaining, and they served Corona in cans (as pictured above.) Does life get any better? No sir, it does not.

Monday, October 12, 2009

My Life, cameo appearance by: Parking Lot Douchebag

Fun Fact # 04: I am an incredibly passive-aggressive personality, emphasis on the passive. What this means is that if and when I decide to act upon my annoyance/frustration/vexation, it is incredibly sneaky and nigh anonymous.

Now let me tell you about today.

I was perusing the internet, and got an email from Pottery Barn about a sale. I love Pottery Barn and I love things on sale, so naturally, I followed the link to their website to discover the their wood series frames were 20% off. $16 for a frame? Heck yes.

So I travel down to the mall, and get my frames. Now, as you can imagine, I am in a fantastic mood! Two new frames, a pleasant shopping experience, and I'm chit-chatting with my mother about my trip to New York. All is well. I didn't even mind that I got lost in the parking lot (cause I'm one of those smart kids that can never remember to remember where she parked...)

Here's where it gets dicey. I find my car in all his glory. I'm at the passenger side door, unlocking it to put in my shopping bag, and I hear the problem before I see it. Somewhere in the distance behind me is a horribly loud sound system coming from a car whose driver has god-awful taste in music. (I know this because I recognize the crap-rock style of throat-singing sensation Scott Stapp.) So I'm trying to continue my conversation, despite the growing intensity of the atrocious musical stylings of Creed, until I can no longer hear my mother because parking lot douchebag has decided to park right next to me.

Now I would like to paint you a picture of Parking Lot Douchebag. He is driving a jacked up, flame-decaled, must-be-compensating-for-a-lot Ford F-150 with off-roading tires that appear to have only driven obnoxiously over a median or two because the jackass operator of the vehicle couldn't wait his freaking turn to cross traffic. He drives with his windows down in the rain. Yes, that's right, it was raining, muggy and 80 degrees and this guy has his windows down like it's effing San Diego in the springtime. He is forcing everyone within a mile radius of his super-cool self to listen to his vomit-inducing taste in music, and he is wearing an NRA t-shirt. Until today, I did not realize the NRA made t-shirts. I know better now. He is caucasian, he is overweight, and sloppy. He is wearing flip-flops and has some of the nastiest looking toes I have ever seen. He is exactly what you would expect, and for a brief moment, I am sad for Texas.

At this point, I know my mother is talking, but I cannot hear her. He is idling in his parking spot, music still raging, and I am livid. So I yell into the phone:

Mom, I know you're talking, but some jackass just pulled up and his horrid music is playing so fucking loud that I cannot hear you so I'm going to have to call you back.

Now, I should mention that I did not actually intend for Parking Lot Douchebag to hear me. Again, I am of the passive-aggressive persuasion. But I am finishing my sentence as he is opening his door, and he hears me. For a moment, my thoughts are a bit of a panic, because I really don't mouth off to strangers. I have seen too many crime shows where road rage gets the best of someone and the next thing you know, your chest cavity is the new home of a nine-millimeter bullet. So I just make it a habit of not being a smartass to the unpredictable. But the window of opportunity to get shot in the head passes, and I have once again returned to my irritated state of being.

So I move around to the driver's side of the car to get in, and that's when I hear it. His voice, his nasal, nails-on-a-chalkboard-to-my-brain vocal rendition of a baby crying. He is mocking me for being pissed off at him, and something in my brain switches on. Because I drive a red sports car that screams "I might be small, but don't think for a second that I won't entirely run you over." I get OUT of my car. I turn to where he is standing, now just behind my vehicle, and I say:

You know what? You can just fucking go to hell.

And I mean it. And he's looking at me, and Parking Lot Douchebag knows I mean it. Because I might be a passive-aggressive person, and I am almost always polite to strangers because THAT is what my mother taught me to do, but there is no way in hell that this guy is going to get the last word. No sir. Parking Lot Douchebag absolutely does not get to walk away thinking that he won this interchange. I win. I'm right, I'm pissed, and I win.

Parking Lot Douchebag's trashy girlfriend gives him a nudge to keep walking, because she knows what's up. He mumbles something about me needing to get over it, and I tell him to keep fucking walking. In my head, my thoughts are "you are not thinking this through," and "who the hell is talking right now?" because you have no earthly understanding of how out-of-character this is for me. Staring down a guy twice my size, and I'm outnumbered? Not very rational, and not my style. But like I said, I was not about to let this guy win.

So they leave, and that's when I realize that my father is still on the phone. And he has heard this entire exchange and I can practically see him on the other end with his palm against his forehead, shaking his head back and forth going, "only Eleanor, no one else, only her." And he is praying to God that he doesn't hear gunfire, or police sirens and yet, he says nothing. He just waits.

And I get back on the phone and I say:

Hey Dad, Mom said she needed to call me back? That's fine, I will talk to you guys later.

And he agrees with a small chuckle in his voice, and we hang up. And I sit in my car for a few moments, reveling in the events that just took place.

Only me, no one else, only me.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

[really long] story time!

In the place of actually having something interesting to say, I would like to bring you pictures.

And I shall narrate along the way, because my photos are their own story. This is the story of how on a Thursday afternoon, while driving home from a particularly stupid gym excursion, I get a phone call from a friend. And this friend has an idea, and it's going to involve me in a big way. I know this by the way she responds after I answer.

e: Holler!
k: heeeeeeeeey friend.
e: uh oh.
k: [laughter.] I have a proposition for you...
e: Is this going to potentially get me hurt and/or in some kind of trouble with law enforcement?
k: [long period of silence] uh...maybe?
e: what is it.

So this is the part where she launches into the story of how her husband and child are going out of town for the weekend and she wants to paint her living room. Here's the catch: I'm the only other person that knows. No exceptions, the only other person. This translates to, if I'm going down, you're coming with me. So what is my response?

e: What color were you thinking?

Because let's be honest, I didn't have anything else going on. And I like to decorate and design. And I can't do any of that at my house because my house is in fact, my parents house. So I'm 100% in before she even gets to the color choices. Which, by the way, she didn't really have anything set in her mind. So I throw out my default color, "what about an earth-tone green?"

So here's what we were looking at:
Now, I'll be the first to say that I'm a fan of brown. I do, I love it. But this is too much, and definitely the wrong shade. So we went to West Elm (my stipulation of partaking in this weekend, because they were having a sale, and I wanted a bathmat.) and then afterwards, we stopped by Home Depot. And this is the part where I walk through all the color walls and just start throwing shades of green at her. Then we lay them all out, and she chooses three. We get samples, just like the pros do, and we go home to change/test them out.

And maybe have a beer:
As in my life, the beer is the focus, but in the background, you can see our test spots. At this point, we looked at each other and both thought, well now we really have to do something. Because even though we could just call it artsy, three green splotches on your living room wall is not cute.

So we go back to the Home Depot, first making a stop at Sonic, which for some reason was not only challenging, but hilarious. This was the moment we realized that we would be making a second trip to the exact same Home Depot, within three hours, in completely different outfits. (I had been wearing my favorite jeans, and was not willing to sacrifice them to the chances of non-removable paint.) So we tried to come up with a lie, but our byline just grew more outlandish and absurd rather than heading towards the realm of believability.

At the HD, as I like to call it, three distinct events occurred worth mentioning. Event #1: we chose a shade of green paint, and ordered three gallons of it, which, just FYI, is two, too many. Event #2: We met Gregory, the incredibly attractive gentleman that works in the paint department of Home Depot. He helped us choose the shade of white for the fireplace. Did I mention he was attractive? He was. (I also deduced that I could not date said Gregory because my brother's name is Gregory and that would be weird and confusing.) and then finally Event #3: to the high school girl standing behind us in line. Do not give me weird looks when I start dancing to "Eye of the Tiger" because it's your stupid ringtone in the first place. It just so happens that it is also one of my favorite gym songs. So suck on that.

We order a pizza. We drink another beer, and we start to prime.
This is about the time that we learned several different things. Things like: oops is a scary word; we are actually not as lazy as we originally thought; I find myself exceptionally funny; painting and drinking actually can work out.

and so, one more beer, and we moved on to painting:
Kaci did a lot of, ohmigod I cannot believe we're doing this, and Matt is going to freak out. But I had already forced her to commit, so she was pretty much stuck either way. And since we started, we might as well finish. Second most popular phrase of the night then became: watch the carpet! We cannot ruin the carpet!

so we did this:
And if I'm being honest, I'm still amazed at how perfectly we did not ruin the carpet. So we primed, and painted, drank beer and ate pizza. And then we sat around for an hour and a half, watching the paint dry. Now, I am here to disbar a rumor that watching paint dry is boring, because it is my experience now, that the truth is quite the opposite. Most of the conversation is not something I can divulge so freely on the internet, but trust me when I say it was not only interesting, but humorous. I should note that if you wish to achieve similar results, you should probably have one of or both of us around. I think we're key ingredients to success. So we called it a night, admiring our handiwork, and picked it up bright and early the next morning.

And now it was time for some green action:
This is the time, if there ever was one, for me to mention how challenging I find the process of taping to be. It could have been because it was late, or because I was four beers in, but for some reason, I kept taping the wrong parts of the wall. And out of sheer frustration for having to do it twice as many times as Kaci, I grew to hate the taping concept. So if you would like me to help you paint, you have been warned. I will whine for the whole taping procedure. You should also know, as my tennis coaches learned back in the fifth grade, that I like to talk, and talking slows me down. Therefore, my tennis matches were the longest, and I am a slow painter. Entertaining as hell, though.

Kaci, on the other hand, is not. And we finished painting her entire living room in less than two hours. And once again, sat back and watched the paint dry. And even though it was 10:30 in the morning, we had ourselves another beer. And we did a lot of smiling, and used the words "fresh" and "clean" a lot, and patted ourselves on the back. Because let's just be honest here, that living room looked good.

and that fireplace looked good:
and then, the part that we had been dreading since we moved everything in the first place. We had to move all the furniture back. And I had to set her TV back up, and rewire all the speakers into the receiver. (Because for Kaci, I am one-stop tech support for any and all things electrical. Seriously. Her iPod breaks, I get a call. Her phone. Her TV. Her toaster. If it plugs in, she thinks I know how to fix it.)

And once we had it all set back up, she finally seemed at ease about it. No longer was she saying that Matt was going to kill her. And the burden of being the only one to know was lifted, because she was so excited that she was telling her sister and her mom.

Free at last, free at last.

and it was worth of excitement:
You struck comedic gold when you found me.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

daily writer excerpt; 09.23.09

The Goal:
Study a work of art that inspires you, that speaks to a part of your soul that cannot be seen. Just as in Mary Poppins, when they enter the paintings on the sidewalk, write a passage as you have entered this piece of art.

The night here is a different experience entirely from what the daylight hours have to offer. Sometimes, I find myself ridden with sympathy for the day; how it simply pales in comparison. For the day, albeit bright and lively as he is, only has one overwhelming source of light. At night, in this place, hundreds upon thousands of balls of fire light up the sky, sending swirls of soft, hopeful beams down on our little city. The moon does not harbor the sin of pride as the sun does. She does not shine so bright as to prevent her starry allies from being seen. No, she merely reflects the light she receives, almost as a spotlight for the main character would on a stage. Our world in constant motion. Our world of ever-changing rip-tides and waves cascading over waves of new things to come. The night illuminates not that of which we fear, but instead, the endless possibilities. So I ask you, my friends; let us turn off our artificial, mocking lights, and be led only by the moon and her burning, loving companions.

Monday, September 21, 2009

I might have been a happier person in the 1800's. or if I was Amish.

m: Uh hi, ticketmaster is a fucking joke. 20 extra dollars for what? Processing?
e: Yeah, ticketmaster sucks
m: But then, going to the city to buy tickets isn't very fun either.
e: No, it's pretty much a lose-lose situation. Like my life.

Modern luxuries hate me. This much I know. About a month ago, the cooling fan in my car went out, and I was forced to make a four hour drive from Dallas to Houston, in late afternoon heat, in the middle of summer, in Texas, without air conditioning. Awesome. This of course, happened after a particularly grueling day of work, one in which Pro Tools crashed every hour, on the hour, and I dropped a case of water on my foot.

So $1300 later (because oh that's right, my radiator was leaking, too) my car was back to normal. Two weeks later, my check engine light comes on. So I do what I do. I popped the hood, took a really long look at the box that I only assumed was the engine, and went, "checked. looks fine, gotta go!" and drove for a week with that blaring yellow light, causing less fear, and more annoyance than anything else. (Because you can dim all the other dashboard lights, except that macaroni & cheese yellow symbol. Downgrade.)

Eventually my Dad sees it, asks how long it's been on (Oh a few days...) and we take it to get the computer code read and deciphered. (At this point, I think I should really just invest in one of those computer-reading keypads that they use, might save some time.) Something about a cylinder is misfiring. Of course it is. Number two, I believe? I think I have four. That doesn't seem dire. How many cylinders could I possibly need, really? So they reset the light, and I drive around until it comes back on. And then I keep driving around, because I have places to go, and you are just a stupid little light.

Here's the awesome part. The other day, the light just goes off! As if my car was to say, "okay, you called my bluff, nothing was wrong. And I'm tired of keeping up the pretense." That's right car. I stand strong, YOU back down. Eleanor is the winner, and you are the loser.

See, because at this point, I was so arrogantly operating under the notion that sometimes, things just work out. Sometimes, if you leave something along, it just fixes itself! I say arrogantly, because in my heart of hearts, I know that this will never apply to me. Because the morning that my car healed itself, the speaker in my cell phone stopped working. And then the night that my phone started to work again, my ceiling fan started making this really weird sound like it was about to spin off the wall and decapitate me. And then this morning, when my fan miraculously stopped echoing the sounds of impending doom, my car starts to overheat. again.

So for anyone out there that thinks that I'm just being overdramatic, eff you. The facts are staring you right in the face. Car. Phone. Ceiling Fan. Car. Also, my dryer doesn't dry my jeans all the way, my DVR refuses to record the season premiere of The Mentalist, and My iPod's "shuffle" feature is a freaking joke. Things that man invented to make our lives more convenient and easy are the reasons that somedays, it's all I can do to just get out of bed.

Hate is a strong word, Monday. But I really, really, really don't like you.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Whiteboard Lyric Sunday

"Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?" - She & Him

off the album "Volume One," and it's the closest I can get to pretending for a few moments that I could be Zooey Deschanel. Love Music. Love Style. Love Her.

meaning well,

Thursday, September 17, 2009

None of this will make any sense.

Dreams are weird. My dreams, the ones that ferment in the subconscious of my brain, are even weirder. I've always been interested in dream analysis, but at the same time, I'm afraid to share some of my dreams, just in case they land me in some kind of intense therapy session.

Last night's dream was a prime specimen for the complete bizarreness that is my mind.

It started out with myself, and my little brother and we were in a large, cold gothic mansion. We were having some kind of heated discussion, though I was a spectator in the dream and couldn't hear what we were talking about. That seems to happen a lot to me. I always see myself from a distance, I'm rarely, actually, me. So he and I are discussing something, and then suddenly, Professor Dumbledore apparates into the room. He gives my little brother a sword, and tells him to do something, and Geof leaves. So now it's just me and Dumbledore, and we're just staring at each other.

Now I'm running, and Draco Malfoy is ahead of me. Deductive reasoning says that I'm chasing him. In my head, or in Dream Eleanor's head, I rationalize that this is a bad plan, because he has a wand and I have no weapons at all. (You know, other than my sharp wit and tumultuous rage...) but for some reason, he's running from me, so I arrogantly assume that I possess something that he is afraid of.

Here's where it gets strange. This whole time, I'm a third party to the action. I am watching myself talk with people, I am watching myself chase down Malfoy, and I am only hearing myself think, though not actually thinking the thoughts in my own head. But the second, and I mean the very instant I catch Malfoy and knock him down to the ground, I am me. Like I time-warped into my own body, and simultaneously become an active party to this dream. Because this is the part where I start trying to hit him. And this is the part, like in so many of my dreams, where I am trying with all my might to punch someone and it's as if I'm giving them a hug. He's laughing, because my blows are not mighty nor impacting, and I'm getting more frustrated, which translates into more pissed off. (Just like in real life.)

But wait! It gets better. Because suddenly, I'm magical, and I have a swiss army knife for a fist, for just a second, and I stab him. And he's dead. And then Dumbledore is there, and I tell him, "it was an accident. I accidently killed him." And he's laughing, like the kind of laugh you have when you're thinking, "Oh you, you wily little girl." And now we're back in the gothic castle.

Dumbledore tells me that I have to kill Voldemort. Again, now that I'm not fighting anyone, I have returned to a third party observer. I can hear my thoughts, but I am not thinking them. And just for the record, if you were to give it a literary term, I would be third-person limited omniscient. I hear myself think, "how am I going to kill Voldemort without a wand?" and then I see myself start to look around. What am I looking for? A spare wand just laying around? I, the narrator of this tale, feel annoyed with Dream Eleanor. Because the room I am in is entirely empty, and this is a magic place. But then, it hits me! Magic! So again, when it's time to actually do something, I snap back into myself, and start saying spells. (Which don't work without a wand in JK Rowlings version, but I seem to have some kind of secret capabilities that not even she could have foreseen.) So I say, "Accio Wand!" and a wand comes flying into my hand. freaking sweet.

Then I say, "Accio Marauder's Map!"
Then I say, "Accio basallik tooth!" (because that's the only way to kill Voldemort, 'member?)

This is the part where the basallik tooth comes flying at me, and I suddenly think that air travel of such a weapon wasn't the smartest thing. Don't worry, I caught it.

I am loving this whole magic thing. I was probably smiling in my sleep. I just started to call random objects to me, like "accio mighty-mend it!" and "accio George Forman grill!" and it worked, and it was awesome.

But then Voldemort shows up, and I have to put away my informercial products and get ready to fight. So we fight. Even in my dream, it was very nondescript, I just know that there was a fight, and then the next vivid image in my head was me stabbing Voldemort in the heart with the giant tooth. And blood is flying everywhere, but this fool is not dying. Again, he's laughing. So I do what's logical, I start to dig around in his chest cavity to freaking rip out his heart. (just one of the many moments I think, if shared with the right person, could land me in some kind of institute.)

So I grab something, and pull it out. And it's a sponge. In the shape of a heart. And the Voldemort I have been stabbing for like, an hour, shuts down. Because he was a robot. And Dream Eleanor says something like, "Son-of-a-bitch." and stabs Robot-Voldemort in his robotic eye.

This is the part where both my brothers come running into the room, waving their swords in triumph. Also, my older brother's friend Leo is there. He, too, has a sword. I am covered in blood, wielding a tooth, and feeling incredibly disheartened.

Geof (little brother) says, "You killed him!"
Greg (older brother) says, "We killed the snakes!"
Leo (random friend of said older brother) says, "Voldemort wasn't a robot in the books."

Everyone looks confused. I'm confused as to why they were killing snakes. But there isn't time. Because at this point, I figure out that robot-Voldemort is a ruse, and that the real one is still out there. Enter, Marauder's map. So I find the dot labelled "Lord Voldemort" and he's walking down our street. (Because the gothic castle, apparently, is also located on Center Ct.) So I run out into the street, tooth in hand, and I see him, throw the tooth in his general direction with supernatural force and precision, and he drops dead.

Dumbledore appears again (fancy him showing up right after all the hard parts were over.) and Greg tells him about the snakes. Geof tells him that he might have killed one of our neighbors on accident, and Dumbledore smiles. Says something along the line of "accidental murders seem to run in the family." and everyone laughs because accidentally killing someone is funny to us.

Now the singing starts. And we retell the tale of how I killed Voldemort, and how Dumbledore is awesome, and how all the snakes are dead, in musical form, complete with a chorus and set changes. Suddenly, our last number starts to sound a lot like "This is For Real" by Motion City Soundtrack, and I think, "hmm, copyright infringement much?"

But don't worry, it was just my alarm.
It's 8:30.
and @KaciDuke has apparently already updated her twitter.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

I've got mail.

For those of you, my loyal facebook readers, (has anyone else noticed the influx in comments on my facebook statuses? It's exciting business!) you are already aware of my recent letter from the Houston Astros Baseball Club. But I decided that it was a moment worth sharing.

The mail arrived at my house around 1:30 this afternoon, however, the people who come and "maintain" our yards were busy mowing, blowing and spraying stuff around, so I was forced to wait inside until 2:15 to retrieve my mail.

Author's Note: You may think that I was expecting something, but I truly wasn't. I simply A. have a view of the mailbox from my bedroom window, and B. really love mail.

So I strolled out to the mailbox after making sure all the men that had invaded my yard were a safe distance away (as in several yards away) and flipped through as I walked back to the house. At the very bottom of the pile was a letter for me, and I stopped walking. Because look at that letterhead! I'm used to getting junk mail. This did not look like junk mail. I'm used to getting promotional stuff. (We have season tickets.) I am not used to getting promotional stuff addressed to my first and last name, both spelled correctly. (The season tickets are not in my name.) So this is a letter, and it is meant for me.

To be perfectly honest, I stared at the envelope, talking to myself, for a good two minutes. I ran over theories in my head.

+ Someone reported me, and I am being asked never to return to Minute Maid Park.
+ I entered a contest, and won something? It's not unlike me to drink and register.
+ "Maybe it's money?"
+ "Why would it be money?"
+ "Why would it be anything else?"
+ I lost an item of identification and it is being returned.
+ I am being recruited to play third base.
+ I accidentally purchased Hunter Pence's contract, and this is it.
+ I did enter that raffle, but I thought it was just for an autographed bat.
+ I now own Hunter Pence.
+ What the hell am I going to do with him?

So I caved, gingerly opened the envelope, and discovered, on very official looking letterhead, that the HR department had my resume on file, and they were notifying me that it would be kept for six months. I am in the system. Which is good, because I cannot afford Hunter Pence, and the only thing I could think to do with him would be to make him run all my errands, and move furniture around.

Dodged a bullet on that one. I don't have much furniture, so that could get boring.


I also wanted to do a quick tutorial on commenting on my blog for those of you without blogger accounts. (I've been asked, I swear.)

Simply click on the "comment" link at the bottom of the entry you wish to comment on.

Then you can either select "Name/URL" or "Anonymous" and type in your comment into the comment field. You do not have to put a URL, it's optional. If you choose to, it will hyperlink to your name.

Then fill out the verification code and click "okay" or whatever it says.

That's all! Now you have no excuses left, secret readers!

Monday, September 14, 2009

Since they won't return my calls...

Things I would tell celebrities/professional athletes if their security would let me get close enough:

Bronson Arroyo: your hair makes you look like a complete tool.

Heidi Montag: Sometimes, when people say things about you, it's actually not because they're jealous. It's because you really are dumb.

John Mayer: I do not read your twitter.

Lady GaGa: Your clothing makes me laugh, but you also scare me.

Tim Lincecum: You're a pretty good pitcher, but you look like you want to be a greaser from The Outsiders. Stay Gold, Ponyboy.

Daniel Radcliffe: Yes, you're Harry Potter, but you aren't actually Harry Potter.

Bono: Just admit it, you aren't a musician, you're the Blackberry music video guy.

Spencer Pratt: The fact that natural selection hasn't eliminated you baffles me.

Kristen Stewart: It makes me sad for you, that you seem so sad, all the time. Buy something pretty with your Twilight monies, and smile. kthxbye.

Robert Pattinson: Sometimes, it's okay to not say exactly what you're thinking. Especially when what you think is inexplicable.

Hunter Pence: I will pay for 1 month of your WoW subscription for every down and away slider you don't swing at.

Heidi Klum: Are you a cyborg? Because I think you are.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

"Oh-Nine" Day is lamer than I thought it would be.

Well, today is absolutely desolate. It started out really great, too. I think that is what's making it seem even worse. I woke up, feeling rejuvenated and ready to brave the day. I went downstairs, and there was just enough milk for a complete glass. Then I turn on the television, and "10 Things I Hate About You" is on Encore, which means, no commercials! So I watch about an hour of that (long enough to see my favorite scenes, and get a healthy dose of Heath Leger face) and I'm ready to get going on my day.

This is where I went wrong. The very second I sit down to write out a grocery list as a sub-list to my daily to-accomplish list, I notice my room getting dimmer and dimmer. But I don't cave. I keep my eyes on the prize, finish my list, and decide to get ready to go to the store now, before the weather gets bad. So I throw on some jeans, and a t-shirt, my hair hasn't been brushed in a while but whatever, and I grab my things to leave. At this point, the only way to describe the atmospheric state outside is "calm-before-the-effing-hurricane grey." So I break down, and I turn on a lamp. And the second click of that knob, right as the energy saving bulb kicks on, was the catalyst. The heavens break open, and sheets of water, freaking sheets I tell you, come raining down upon the earth.

You would think that it would just be easier to take a photo of all of this, to accurately depict why I am now blogging rather than accomplishing things, such as hunting and gathering at the local corporate food palace. But here is the kicker to my morning. I grabbed my camera, trekked downstairs, walked outside in the humid, wet outdoors (I, of course, was under the safety of the port-a-cache) and what is this? My camera finally dies a very inconveniently quiet, ill-timed death. This is surprising not because it died. But because my technology usually has a habit of going out with a bang. Something grand, dramatic and nigh unforgettable. But alas, this time, my digital camera went to sleep, never to awake again. I will miss the "beep-beep-beep" of her waking up, the flightiness of her focus (much like her owner, I should add) and the abuse she suffered during many passed-around parties. RIP, camera. It's been a blast.

In other news, I think I set a record for number of horn honks while driving yesterday. I didn't start counting until around seven I think, but if my guestimate is correct, it was in the 12 to 15 range. Why is this? Because people really suck at driving. Bottom line: that's what the problem is. I am good, they are not.

I hate honking my horn. I hate it because my horn is really wimpy in comparison to the rage that I feel when tempted to use it. It's like, I am swearing up a storm, cursing families, vowing sweet revenge on all who have wronged me, and the only way I can make the object of my wrath know that I am indeed talking to him, is this little "meeeep" sound. So I've just said something entirely menacing, and all they hear is "I'm slightly annoyed, but too docile to really do anything about it" which is just frustrating.

So I don't tend to use my horn. But when I do, when I feel like the situation is just too out of control to just drive defensively, I break out the extended-horn honk. That's where I hold down the button for about fifteen seconds, to let anyone and everyone around me know that the little red Acura, while small in stature, is absolutely going to ram in to you if you don't get the hell out of her way. This, as I go flying past them, is always accompanied by a pointed glare, and several choice words about either taking away their license, or life, whichever seems more satisfying. So yesterday, there were 12 to 15 extended-horn honks. And I must say, some of my strings of insults got pretty interesting and creative towards the end there. (I may be angry, but I also don't like to keep using the same lines over and over again. I have integrity.)

I guess maybe the rain is God's way of saying, "stay off the road today, Elle, or you might just actually break one of those stone-tablet rules and then I'll have to smite you." And that's not on today's to-do list, so there's that. I guess maybe I could finish some applications, or read? But more than likely, I will end up watching Season 5 of The Office on DVD in my pajamas. And I don't even really feel bad about that.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

09.02.2009 looks like an IP address.

All right, I've had this blog for about ten months, and readers are finally starting to creep out of the woodwork. (And I just lost about 90% of them by making a termite analogy when referring to them. Good one, e.) Nevertheless, it is an exciting thing to think that people find what I say either interesting or worthwhile, but it also about quadruples the pressure. I write something, I read it, and I think, "hmm, is that just me being weird again?" To be honest, even with the entries that have made it past the 'do or do not click the publish button' phase, the answer has been, "yes. yes it is." Yet, a lot of times, weird can be construed as funny. I just hope that my tendency to overreact, over-think and hyper-analyze can remain in the realm of humorous, before completely passing into the dimension of "friggin' neurotic."

In other news, I seem to have found a rhythm to my essentially-unemployed morning routine. I get up when my alarm goes off (in an attempt to pretend, even for a moment, that I have a reason to get up) and trek downstairs to make some breakfast.

Author's Note: the phrase, "make some breakfast" means something very different to me than it would to anyone else. I really don't like breakfast. There isn't a breakfast food that I can get excited about, and I hate having to eat that early in the morning. So when I say 'I'm gonna go make me some breakfast!' what I mean is, "I'm going to grab a Special K cereal bar and drink some chocolate milk." Breakfast of Champions, sure, if you consider my life to be particularly heroic and/or exciting. So to recap: I hate breakfast. My favorite meal of the day is lunch, and dinner is only exciting when there's something particularly interesting to eat. Why lunch? Because for lunch, you get to eat sandwiches! My favorite food? Freaking sandwiches.

So I take my breakfast, and I go upstairs with Dexter (my MacBook Pro laptop, for those of you out of loop,) and we watch an episode of Degrassi on MTV while I make my first lap around the world wide web. Now, generally, after that enthralling half-hour, I'm usually awake enough to feel guilty about my lack of initiative.

Yet lately, MTV has been playing episodes of MADE, and well, I love that show. Especially since, for the past week or so, all the episodes have been about tomboy girls getting girlyfied via becoming a model, or a prom queen, or whatever. I find myself completely endeared to these poor, awkward girls. Why? Because I absolutely used to be one of them, only maybe with a fraction more of a clue. (A very small fraction, and only because I had better friends than they did. Kudos to my high school friends.) So I say, forget the shower, forget the errands, and absolutely hell no to going to the gym right now. I want to see how these kids survive. Plus, they always cry, and I find it fascinating to see what makes other people cry. Like, there was the girl that cried cause she had to wear a bikini to the beach, or the one that cried cause she had to drop out of a three-on-three basketball tournament (which I totes get, by the way.)

But the best part of these shows is watching the first dates. Because that seems to be a requirement for every single one of these non-girly ladies, is to be forced on an awkward, videotaped date. One that you can't even be sure if your boy agreed to because he likes you, or because he wanted to be on television. So they go somewhere hella lame, and MTV likes to emphasize the awkwardness by editing lots of silent moments in. Then there's me, sitting in my chair, holding my breath every time she opens her mouth, waiting in eager anticipation of the moment when it either clicks or ends. And when they interview the girls after, and they're just beside themselves with first date bliss, I'm saying things like, "good for you, girl!" or I'm clapping, or worse, I'm tearing up at how excited and happy they are. Why? Because I've been there, I know what they're feeling, and I don't wish it upon anyone, really. But when the moments are good, they're great, and every tomboy lady should be cheering for her sisters. We're a rare breed, and we're incredibly misunderstood. Can I get an AMEN!

So when that's all said and done, and the credits are rolling, I feel two things. 1. better about myself because I didn't need an MTV reality show to fix my life, and 2. useless, because it's 11 o'clock and I haven't accomplished even showering. So essentially, when you mix those two feelings together, I feel pretty much the same as I did before the episode started. Except now maybe I'm a little hungry.

Monday, August 31, 2009

PSA #1,001

A friendly reminder to keep my sanity, and hopefully yours, too.

I had a bit of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the home decor section of Target the other day, which consequentially led to me running out of the store. (I usually try to look less like a shoplifter, but I didn't have the brainpower to care.)

Before my graceful exit, and I heard a little boy ask his mother, "what's wrong with that lady?"

She lied to him, because she said "nothing."
What she should have said was, "Well Timmy, that is what happens to people in a recession."
Happy Monday.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

As the score stands: Th: 1, E: 0.

I surrender. I'm taping a napkin to a stick from my backyard and I'm waving it furiously at Team Thursday. I'll go quietly, I swear. Just please, don't put an assault rifle to my forehead.

Yes, I do realize that it's only 2:30 in the afternoon, and that there is still a lot of day left. But I'm throwing in the towel now. Why, you ask? Because I ventured out into the world today to accomplish things, to be productive, and I almost died. Metaphorically, I guess. Well, I actually could have died. (Thanks only to the light blue minivan with a Jesus fish on the back that cut me off in a feeble attempt to make a right-hand turn into the Sonic parking lot. Was that necessary? It wasn't even Happy Hour yet...)

So my day got off to a slow start, because I hate the grocery store. I really do. The parking lots are always littered with pedestrians, meandering aimlessly around; some, in my opinion, with the sole intent of getting in your way. Then you have to push around those bulky carts and the aisles are never wide enough. Oh, and also, a big 'eff you' to whoever's idea it was to rearrange everything inside the store. I know you have signs, but I don't want to read them. I want to go to the bread aisle and you know what I want? I want there to be mother-effing bread there. Not asian cuisine. Not vitamins, and absolutely not organic juice.

Why else do I hate the grocery store? Because everyone is always in the way, and no one moves. Like, lady with your three kids, all I want is some shredded cheese. But I cannot get to said cheese because 1. you have a giant shopping cart with half a car attached to it to house two of your three miscreants. and 2. where's your third one? The one that you aren't watching because you're debating over oven-roasted turkey and smoked turkey? (Which taste the freaking same, by the way) Well, miscreant #3 is making a tower of cheese right in front of the spot where I would like to be standing. So I finally get to the cheese, and I reach OVER the child, and you know what? I even say excuse me. And what happens? The kid looks at me like I'm in his way. And then the mother looks at me like I'm gonna steal her stupid kid. Do I look like someone that wants a kid that talks to himself and annihilates the cheese section of the refrigerated aisle? I don't, I swear.

So I get through the store. My shoulders are tense, my frozen foods are melting, and the decibel level of soccer mom chatter and their offspring's shouting makes my brain feel like it's going to collapse upon itself like a dying star. I get to a checkout line, and I wait. The old gentlemen in front of me is buying twenty cans of tuna, and wants to pay in change. I kid you not, there wasn't a single paper bill involved in his transaction. The checker is disgruntled, and takes it out on me, because I am neither old or threatening in appearance. (You never know what those old guys are capable of. They've been to wars. The closest I've ever come to violence was walking through East Oakland around twilight.)

So she's a bitch to me. And I'm so flabbergasted about the carts, and the small aisles, and the cheese kid, and the bean thread where my bread used to be, that I completely forget to say paper instead of plastic. And lovely Miss Stink-Eye has already bagged everything, and if I ask her to re-bag it, I honestly believe that she would stab me, right there in the middle of checkout stand 14. So I pay with my debit card, and she asks me, with a classy roll of her death-stare eyes, if I want my receipt. Seeing as how I just gave her sixty dollars that I will never see again, yes, I'd like proof that I got something for it. And at this point, I want to flip out. Because she exhales, pointedly. Are you kidding me, woman? Is it really the most awful thing any one person has ever done to you, to ask you for a receipt? You don't have to add up anything, you don't have to print it, all you have to do is reach over, with just one hand, and grab the pre-cut receipt from it's printing vessel and give it to me. I can see how my presence has taxed you to no end. My eternal apologies.

So this is why, with my makeshift flag, I am surrendering to Thursday. You win. I tried, I failed, and I know when to give up on saving the ship and just float around on a door. But you'll be back, Thursday, and we shall duke it out again. I'll be ready for you, next time. Count on that.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

8 AM doesn't make anyone look good.

When my parents bought our house back in 1995 (or maybe it was 1994? Years were irrelevant to me back then) I'm sure they weren't thinking about how horrible the entryway really was. On the contrary, they probably thought it was beautiful. Giant open windows, centralized staircase, perfect for interior decorations during the holidays, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. A lot of you probably agree, we do have a lovely house. But this is why the entry way is horrible: there is no where to hide.

The picture on the right is the stairs up to my room, or as I like to refer to it, my "wing" of the house. I can say this, because I am the only one that ever uses these stairs anymore. (And it's not just because I live in the Thibeaux Estate by myself, just so you know.) But the downside to the location of my wing is that I have to cross the open flooring at the top of the stairs to get to it. Again, it's not the I mind the walk, it's that I am totally exposed to anyone with an assault rifle at my front door. I'm as good as dead. And what's worse? Anyone trying to sell me something, or save me, can see that I am home.

This is when my guilt reflex kicks in. Something you should know about me: I don't answer the door if I know it's not for me. (It's never for me.) I don't answer the house phone if I know it's not for me. (It's never for me.) I don't listen to messages that aren't pertaining to me (unless it's a message about one of my brothers, preferably from a teacher, and hopefully he's in trouble. They never got in enough trouble, in my opinion.) and I absolutely do not get the mail unless I think something for me is coming. These are the facts. However, just like my situations with the mailman, I hate to lie, and I feel guilty when someone knows that I'm avoiding them. My mother did not raise me to be rude to strangers. (I came up with that habit all on my own, I'm proud to say.)

So this is why our entryway is horrible. They can see me. All of them. So I am forced to go, unwillingly, to the door, and I am forced to unlock it, and then, I have to talk to people I don't know about things I don't want, or don't care about. And my conversations have gone like this:

Two men, in suits, walk up to my door. They ring the doorbell once. Wait approximately thirty seconds, and then knock. And I think: I fucking heard you.

I open the door.

Guy #1: Hi! We're from the Christianity Mission Team and we were wondering if you had a minute to talk to us.
Me: Um, a minute, sure.
Guy #2: Are you skipping school today? he laughs.
Me: No, I've graduated college, but thanks. I don't laugh.
Guy #2: Oh, well, good for you! What do you do?
Me: I'm an audio engineer.
Guy #1: what is that?

People don't get what I do for a living. Honestly. Not even my family, really. I have a half-hour speech, explaining all the types of things an audio engineer does. Like sound reinforcement for live concerts, (which gets the response: So you're a musician? No, no I am not.) audio for film and TV (which gets the response: Oh like the lights and stuff? No, more like the sound and stuff.) and the ever popular music recording (Oh, so like you make CD's? Well no, but you're getting warmer.) Most of the time, I just don't feel like having that conversation. So I have taken to going with what all my non-audio friends and family tell other people who ask them what I do.

Me: I do something with computers.
Guy #2: Oh, cool! So, is this your house?
Me: Well, since I'm standing on this side of the door, and you're on the outside, I'm going to go with yes. What the fuck kind of question is that? No, no I actually broke in just a few minutes ago, and I'm about to rob these people blind, but I figured I had a few moments to talk with you guys, so here I am!
Guy #1: We have some documentation we'd like you to read, just about our mission and what we do, does anyone in your home speak spanish?
Me: I think our maid does. But she's only here once a week, and I think she's Catholic.
Guy #2: And how is your relationship with God?
Me: ...Solid.
Guy #1: And do you think that when the time comes, you'll go to Heaven or Hell?
Me: Hard to say, really. What about you? Heaven or Hell?
Guy #2: he's a little taken aback by my tone, because at 8:30 in the morning, I don't want to think about going to hell. Heaven, I'd say.
Me: Really? If you say so.
Guy #1: You know, there is always time to ask for forgiveness, He is always willing to welcome back the lost.
Me: Well, I know where I am, but the next lost person I see, I'll make sure to give them your flyer thing. Thanks!

And the door closes, and I walk back up the stairs, over to the television, and watch several episodes of Judge Hatchett. And every single time, I vow that I will buy curtains for those windows, or find an invisibility cloak.

Maybe I'll just put a sign on the door:

Don't like Chinese Food,
already have a lawn service,
already have a maid,
found Jesus,
and don't support anyone: neighbors or otherwise.
best wishes,